The Designer(52)

‘Don’t talk to me about Henry.’

‘He’s a good man, Copper.’

‘What would you know about him?’

‘I know a diamond when I see one. You’re going to lose him if you don’t give Suzy up.’

‘I won’t give Suzy up. I’d sooner give Henry up.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

Copper rolled on to her side. ‘Go away. I’m going to sleep.’ She was asleep almost instantly, looking absurdly young, her red hair tumbled across her face, her bruised-looking mouth half-open.



The next day, Copper woke with a hammering headache. She felt hung-over and out of sorts all day. Henry came round to see how she was, but she was too listless to respond to him very much. She sat sluggishly staring at the floor during his visit, answering his enquiries in monosyllables.

‘What happened between you and Suzy Solidor last night?’ he asked in a quiet voice.

‘Nothing,’ she muttered.

‘Then why are you like this?’

‘I’m hung-over. I had too much to drink. And . . .’

‘And?’

‘I smoked some hashish.’

‘Who gave you that?’ Henry demanded. ‘Don’t tell me. I can guess.’

‘Bully for you.’

His dark eyes surveyed her. ‘That woman is not a good friend to you, Copper.’

‘You’re jealous,’ she retorted.

‘I’m concerned.’

‘Well, don’t be. I can run my own life without your help.’

‘This isn’t going to end well,’ he said with a grim note in his voice.

After he left, she struggled to concentrate on her work. Hashish, she decided, did not agree with her; though she forgave Suzy for trying the experiment on her, she would not repeat it.

That other experiment – the feel of Suzy’s naked body against her – had left her confused, yet in some way excited. It didn’t help that Pearl was sulky with her and lost no opportunity to nag. But her body felt uneasily alive and sensual.

A few days later, Dior came to find Copper at the place Victor Hugo. ‘Bébé hasn’t come home for days. Not since the party. They’re screaming for him at the Pavillon. We must find him. I’ve borrowed a car. Will you drive?’

‘What do you think has happened to him?’ she asked as they set off.

‘The usual,’ Dior said. ‘A spree that becomes a binge, and then an orgy. And then he is lost.’

‘Where will he be?’

‘We’ll look under the bridges first. That’s where he usually ends up.’

‘Are you joking?’

‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘I am not.’

They drove along the banks of the Seine, stopping at each bridge. Under the arches of some were colonies of clochards, homeless people, deserters and tramps; most of them alcoholics. The weather was icy, and Copper saw at least one figure lying ominously still at the water’s edge. Dior made her wait in the car while he picked his way fastidiously among the huddled groups, peering into the grimy, bearded faces.

‘Not there,’ he said as he got into the car after the third such visit. ‘There are thirty-seven bridges in Paris. This could take a long time, Copper.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I’m at your disposal.’

‘I’m so grateful.’ His cheeks were flushed with the cold. As always, no matter how little money he had, he was immaculately dressed. He had on a fine English overcoat and a hat. ‘Let’s go to the Port de Grenelle. That’s one of their favourite places.’ As they set off, he huddled into his overcoat like a bird fluffing up its feathers. ‘How are things with your Henry?’

‘I haven’t heard from him.’

‘I hear there was an incident at the party,’ he said delicately.

‘I made myself sick on crème de menthe,’ she replied lightly. ‘Nothing more.’

‘Don’t lose him,’ Dior said.

‘Tian—’

‘I say nothing more than that.’ He exclaimed suddenly, ‘Look out, ma petite!’ She braked hard. A crowd of men had blocked the street, forcing her to stop. They were marching purposefully towards the river carrying placards. There had been political turmoil in France for several weeks now, marked by regular strikes that often brought Paris to a standstill for several hours at a time. This, however, was the biggest demonstration she had seen.

‘I’m going to take some photographs,’ she said, reaching for her camera, which went with her everywhere.

‘Be careful,’ Dior said anxiously. ‘They may be dangerous. They are wearing the most dreadful clothes.’

Storing up this bon mot for an after-dinner story, Copper got out of the car and walked towards the strikers, already focusing her viewfinder. The men were sullen-faced, chanting ragged slogans. Copper saw that many of the placards bore the hammer and sickle. As Dior had remarked, they were working men wearing overalls and caps. The crash of their wooden clogs grew deafening as more of them poured out of the side street on to the main road. For a while, they ignored her as she photographed them; but then one or two began shouting at her angrily.

‘Copper,’ Dior called from the car, his voice quavering. ‘Let’s go!’